


An Open Window

by Mourning Star (diachronicChthonian)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Gen, Gilbert's flute, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Poignant nostalgia, Regret, Roderich's piano, Snippets, Willful Blindness, Willful Ignorance, hindsight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:34:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23297086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diachronicChthonian/pseuds/Mourning%20Star
Summary: There is a window that always lies open in a fine mansion in Austria.  It always has, and always will, no matter how its purpose fades to memory.
Relationships: Austria & Prussia (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	An Open Window

**Author's Note:**

> Stumbled across this searching for something entirely different today and had completely forgotten ever writing this, so I figured I may as well upload it. It had a note at the top with this link to be the song Roderich plays. Given the document's date is from five years ago, I'm amazed the link even worked when I tested it. Should it cease to work any time soon, the song appears to be called 'Into the Dark' by Sebastian Larsson.
> 
> https://listenonrepeat.com/watch/?v=W3qkiHuslDQ#A_Very_Sad_Piano_Song

Dreary music drifted through pale, translucent curtains, moving in a breeze made by their open window. The window itself, open only for one purpose: that of the man sprawled on the couch to enter and exit through. Use a door? Behave like a proper human[esque] being? Blasphemy. It was the window, and it would always be the window.

Roderich had long since given up on truly hoping for Gilbert to ever behave with proper manners, though half-hearted chastising was never far from his lips. How could it be? Gilbert’s behaviour was simply so… appalling. And yet, as he was now, there was no way for him to be anything but. The thought of a man who would sit with his legs together, who would wash before eating, who would chew with his mouth closed and swallow before speaking…

That thought was of many men, and none of them pale-haired with eyes red as blood in the dark of a moonlit night.

The centuries had begun to run together, now; for so long had Gilbert been terrorising Roderich that he could see no distinction from one event to the next. There were times of difference, of course; different people in the house, moments even of short truce or alliance, but that never stopped the open window leading a dirty path to the man on the couch.

Roderich had long been working on the skill of ignoring him. He could never perfect it. Gilbert had too well perfected the art of attention-grabbing. Many could seek so to do without success. It was rare Gilbert was ever one of those many. But sometimes, on rare, special occasions, Gilbert neither sought nor grabbed attention. He simply entered, took his seat, and listened. These occasions were never planned. They were not consistent with dates, holidays, or celebrations. Sometimes they came in bunches. Sometimes they did not come at all. They should have been Roderich’s favourites, but each time suggested something wrong. Gilbert was not meant to be quiet. Gilbert was not meant to be background. Even when he slept he made sound so obnoxious he could not possibly be forgotten.

(Gilbert’s snoring was the bane of slumbering creatures of any nature. How Gilbird had ever survived, having to live with him, listening to that night after day after night, was beyond Roderich’s comprehension.)

Today was one of those rare, special occasions. Roderich had been in the midst of a sad, lonesome piece. He used the piano to express himself. Somehow, the piece had simply come over him, no thought, no notice. And Gilbert, who had entered through the window a third of the way in, said nothing at all. He did not pause near the window. He did not seem confused. He did not announce himself nor did he jostle Roderich from his mood. He simply moved to his perch and sprawled out, letting the sad, lonesome music wash over him.

Dreary music drifted through pale, translucent curtains, moving in a breeze made by Gilbert’s open window. Neither man spoke a word. Neither man acknowledged each other. Outside, the sun shone on faithfully, but did nothing to warm the cool air that pervaded the music room.

* * *

Looking back, Roderich felt days like those should have been a sign. He should have seen how the two of them were in understanding, at least subconsciously, of what was yet to come. He should have known how Gilbert was going to fall, eventually; how Gilbert was losing people and losing strength and how he couldn’t possibly have kept up his façade forever. He should have realised those days when Gilbert climbed in through the window and walked straight out the door of the music room were not days spent searching for ways to worm himself beneath Roderich’s skin, but days spent trying to regain strength, or to find a friend he had lost to years gone past.

Looking back, Roderich felt there were more than enough signs to one who could see. But he did not have eyes in the back of his head, and he did not play with eyes open. Gilbert’s perch was behind him. The couch was something Roderich could not see when performing. The window was just as invisible. The only part of the room Roderich could catch, on the rare occasions his eyes were open, was the movement of the bottom corner of the farthest curtain. There were signs all around, screaming out to those who were not blind, but Roderich was at the least sand- if not gravel-blind. He was not suited.

Excuses were simple. Roderich had pages and pages of notes of them.

* * *

Music did not always come from the piano in the music room alone. There was a small room, a single space in the back of the house, on the left side of the hallway and the third door from the end; it too housed an instrument. It too housed a window.

But this window was high. It was not so reachable as the music room. Though on the same interior level, the ground outside did not make the window so accessible. 

The instrument was not so high. It hid inside a case inside the bookshelf. The room itself: an unused study. Old books lined a small bookshelf and sat atop an old desk. A small stool with a lidded seat held old scores. A long-since-dried inkwell rested in the corner of the desk near a flaking pen. 

The room was not clean. It was haphazard in organisation. And for Gilbert, such a thing was normally insufferable; it was one of Roderich’s few less-than-perfect habits, and brought out one of Gilbert’s few less-than-slobbish ones. But Gilbert never touched the haphazard organisation. He never straightened the piles of papers. The more he left it alone, the more he could distract from the true reason he’d entered the room.

The flute sat in its case on the bookshelf, leaning books touching straighter ones making a little hovel for it to rest in. Gilbert could remove it. He could open the case. He could and often did clean the shining metal. But from that day forth, that terrible, horrific day, he could not bring himself to play.

Music did not always come from the piano, or any other man-made instrument, or from the music room alone. Tears falling onto shining metallic surfaces, staining old scores and old wood, were a music of their own. Restrained sobs, gasping for breath, for purchase, were their own sort of song. 

* * *

Looking back, Roderich knew he knew what Gilbert kept in there. He knew he’d known just what made the music that echoed softly from it. And he knew why he’d never entered. 

It didn’t mean he didn’t know what he should have done instead.

* * *

Certain days, the sun did not shine through pale, translucent curtains, moving in a breeze made by their open window. Certain days the clouds covered the sky and rain pelted down, wetting the floor in front in a small hemicyclic pattern. Wet footprints made their way to the couch, one mark always dragging behind the other, until they both collapsed with their body onto the perch. 

Certain days, Roderich said nothing at all, and played on as if there had been no intrusion. Only when he had finished his selection for the evening would he rise, and only on his way out would he happen to drape a warm, dry blanket over the wet figure sullying his pristine couch. No comment was ever made. No words ever spoken.

On certain days when the sun did not shine and water fell inside the house, leaving a trail of footprints with one always dragging slightly behind, Roderich baked warm things. He made confectioneries that would not go unappreciated by the sore or weary. And though he left them on the counter before he went to bed, they were nearly always gone by morning, a damp blanket folded neatly beside their tray.

* * *

Looking back, Roderich wished certain offers had been made. There was no need for words. Words could be gone without. But the mark that dragged behind the other so consistently was so obvious, and yet…

Looking back, Roderich wished one of them had had the strength to overcome pride, if only to save ages of hurt. A crutch could do so much more in a moment than ages of standing alone ever could.

* * *

Dreary music still drifts through the music room. Pale, translucent curtains still move in a breeze made by their own open window. But no longer is the trail of footprints from window to couch. No longer is there a body flung carelessly over pristine furniture. 

Looking back brought a great many things to mind for Roderich. But he cannot see. So the window sits open, day after day, year after year, hemicyclic patterns permanently dotting the once-fine floor, even in clear, sunny weather. No longer is there any entrance to the house but through the door, as any proper human[esque] being should do. 

The path from window to couch is still worn into the once-fine floor. It is scuffed and trodden in a way no other part of the house ever shall be. Its trail shows a path that can only be seen looking back.

Each time Roderich looks back, he sees a man falling more and more onto his knees. He sees a man who can no longer lift his legs. A man who at first needed a crutch, but walked on his own, and from there only fell lower and lower until he could not bring his legs up to breach the window.

Gilbert would never enter the house through a door. When the window was inaccessible, the visits were no more.

There is no longer a reason behind the open window. There are only memories made in the hindsight of a sand-blind man.


End file.
